


Sherlock's Warg

by argyle4eva



Series: Being Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-24
Updated: 2010-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson uses a rude word at a crime scene, and John calls him on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock's Warg

**Warg** : noun (From Old Norse _vargr_ "wolf"; Old English _warg, wearg, wearh_ ; related to Proto-Germanic _wargaz_ "strangler.") 1. ( _folklore_ ) In Norse mythology, warg refers to the wolf Fenrir and his sons Skoll and Hati. 2. ( _coll._ ) A large, intelligent, evil wolf. 3. ( _slang: extremely offensive_ ) A shapeshifter whose animal form is a wolf : WEREWOLF.

 

 _Points for creativity,_ John thought, looking at the latest (presumed) murder victim arrayed on the damp, gravelly wasteland ground. It was a callous thought -- Sherlock-grade callous, in fact -- but unavoidable. Once a person got over the first nasty shock at the way the body had been disassembled (mercifully after death, based the quantity of blood and the look of the incisions), one had to admit the subsequent reassembly was . . . unique. John had certainly never seen anything like it and, given the way Sherlock had perked up like a hound going on point at the sight, neither had his partner. No wonder Lestrade called them in. Too bad the recent rain had done a number on the scent trails at the site. Even keeping to human form, John might have been able to catch a few useful hints, otherwise.

Sherlock was already hunkered down over the patched-together remains, sunglasses off and pale eyes flickering over the corpse, taking in every detail. Without looking away, he rummaged in a coat pocket and pulled out four small, capped glass vials, followed by a marking pen.

"John," he said, "I need a sample of earth from each of the four cardinal points surrounding this site. Can you manage that?"

"I think that's within my capabilities, yes," John said, taking the marker and vials from Sherlock's gloved hand. Sherlock didn't reply, either to John's words or his sarcasm; instead, he pulled out his pocket magnifier and began making detailed observations.

Dismissed to his task, John took his bearings from the sun, the London skyline and his own internal sense of direction. He might not get the orientation as perfectly as a man with a compass, but he was reasonably certain of his abilities. He began by heading north at an easy jog, enjoying the smooth flex of muscle and bone, Sherlock's gift of physical freedom still as delightfully welcome as it had been that first night. He ducked under the crime scene tape, scooped up a bit of earth in an open bottle, capped it, and scrawled a broad _N_ on the bottle with the marker before continuing around the site to the right and east. Sunwise seemed the safest direction to go with a murder involved, for all that it probably didn't matter either way.

It was when he was coming around the south, behind the lines of police and support vehicles, that he passed Anderson and heard the muttered remark. It stopped John short in his tracks.

He didn't much care for Anderson and his constant belittling of Sherlock. Donovan . . . Donovan used her insults almost affectionately, sometimes, and John got the sense of a _history_ there that he'd never been brave enough to inquire about. But Anderson was different. Anderson was something John despised, a small man (figuratively speaking) who, instead of working to make himself bigger, tried to cut others down to his own size so he needn't feel inferior.

John's constant, subliminal inventory of his surroundings snapped into conscious focus. He and Anderson were alone, shielded from everyone else by a wall of vehicles, including an ambulance that blocked nearly all vision. They were certainly out of earshot.

"Sorry," John said, fixing a friendly smile on his face and turning to face Anderson, "what did you call me?"

Anderson had been rummaging in the back of a police car for something-or-other, but his back stiffened. He didn't move otherwise.

"I asked you a question," John said, mild and inexorable.

Anderson, deciding he wasn't going to be able to ignore John completely, turned and straightened.

"Nothing," he said. "I didn't say anything." Even if John hadn't known better the sullen denial would have been as good as a confession.

"Oh, I think you did," John said, the very model of good fellowship. Then, more coldly, "What did you call me?"

Anderson swallowed, then let his mouth twist unpleasantly. "Dog," he said. "You're like his dog." A jerk of his head towards the hidden crime scene left no doubt who he meant. "He calls, and you go running." His chin lifted, daring John to disagree.

"I'm not Sherlock's _dog_ ," Jon said amiably, "but that's beside the point. I happen to have excellent hearing," he tapped one finger behind an ear in illustration, "and that's not what you said."

Anderson's mouth snapped shut.

 _Right. I've been wanting to do this . . ._ Still smiling, John straightened, ever so slightly, readjusted the set of his shoulders and locked eyes with Anderson. Subtle things, but then, the animal side of the human brain ran on subtle gestures whether the thinking half realized that or not.

John's postural changes had the desired effect immediately; Anderson's entire body language went on the defensive, though he stayed stubbornly silent. But he'd already lost, and John knew it even if Anderson didn't. Time to drive the point home.

"You know, I hear all the little things you say about Sherlock," John said, taking a step in Anderson's direction, never breaking eye contact. "Not just the things you say for everyone else to hear, though those are bad enough." Another step, and Anderson was already backed against the car, starting to squirm. "Sherlock doesn't think they're worth acknowledging, and I respect that. Same goes for the things you say about him and me together." Another step, and a brief flicker of shock on Anderson's face. He generally mumbled _those_ insults in an undertone, to himself. "I told you," John said, "I have excellent hearing. But that's only to be expected since I'm a . . . what was it you called me, again?"

Still silence, even though Anderson was pressed nearly flat against the vehicle behind him. John noticed Anderson's hand had slipped into his trouser pocket, gripping something inside. Probably a charm, protection against vampires and werewolves and other freaks that went bump in the night. It didn't surprise John in the slightest that Anderson carried something of the sort, but he took grim amusement from knowing that what he was doing right now didn't have anything to do with magic, or even with being a werewolf. Charms were not going to have the slightest effect.

"I'm not going to let this go," John told him. "See, this is something that's just about me for once, and _I_ get to decide how to respond." He was within a few feet of Anderson now; even though John had to look up slightly to maintain his relentless eye contact, there was no doubting who had the upper hand. He took a deep breath, then snapped out in the tone of voice that used to send soldiers of lesser rank saluting by reflex, _"What did you call me?_ "

"Warg," Anderson said, as if the word had been surprised out of him. Then, "Sherlock's warg."

John let his breath hiss out between his teeth, nodding. It was an old slur, and an ugly one.

"That's the word," John said. Then: "Is that how you refer to your fellow officers, I wonder, or am I just _special_?" There were fifteen shapeshifters serving openly at Scotland Yard, by current count, most of them in Central Operations.

Anderson's expression was answer enough, and John's smile went sharper in response. "They're out there on the front lines, risking their lives for the people of this city, not lazing about in Forensics. They deserve your respect," he said before he got hold of himself. Forensics was important, too, he knew that. It was Anderson getting to him, bringing out the worst in return.

Anderson was seriously frightened, now, John could see; the man's eyes had broken free of John's glare and he was shooting darting little glances in all directions, seeking a route of escape, his muscles tensing for flight. John caught a whiff of fear-sweat over the scent of Anderson's infamous deodorant. It was as if he thought John was about to change and attack him -- which was, of course, ridiculous. Even if John were going to go rogue like that (which he wasn't, ever), he wouldn't do it less than a hundred yards away from a group of police officers, several of whom were armed with silver.

"Take it back," John said, letting his voice drop and develop a bit of gravel. Still nothing outside of human parameters, but it had the desired effect on Anderson, snapping his attention back to John's face and unwavering stare. "Say I'm not Sherlock's warg." Then, in the whipcrack tone of command that had worked before, _"Say it."_

Anderson swallowed, then squeaked, "Y-You aren't Sherlock's warg."

Immediately John relaxed his body language, taking a step back and shifting his weight into a less aggressive posture. He let himself blink, finally (his eyes were getting a bit watery from all the staring) and smiled more genuinely. "There," he said, back to being amiable and open, everyone's friend, even Anderson's. "That was easy, wasn't it?"

Anderson looked stunned, but some of the tension went out of him. He licked his lips nervously, but didn't say anything more.

"Remember how easy that was," John told him, "before you open your mouth the _next_ time."

Just then, Sherlock's distant shout of, "John!" echoed across the scraggly, weedy expanse of wasteland. _Perfect timing. How_ does _he do it?_

"Ah," John said. "My master's voice." He gave the words a keen edge, letting his smile expand to show more teeth than usual; Anderson twitched. "Must be off. Nice chatting with you." He nodded politely and turned on his heel, dismissing Anderson without a backward glance.

John completed the last arc of his crime scene circuit at a fast jog, barely pausing as he scooped up the samples, capping and labeling them on the go. When he reached Sherlock's side, Sherlock already had one gloved hand outstretched, waiting, though he wasn't looking in John's direction. John laid the four little vials down in Sherlock's palm, in order, and Sherlock shifted his attention to study them.

They all looked identical to John, but Sherlock cocked his head thoughtfully before slipping the samples into his coat pocket, no doubt for further analysis later. John sighed inwardly, knowing that the little bits of the kitchen table and worktop he'd managed to clear for everyday use were probably about to be overrun with glassware and miscellaneous reagents again. Still, at least it was just soil samples this time, not body parts.

Unless Sherlock had pocketed a few bits of their unfortunate puzzle-man. John bloody well hoped he hadn't, but the remains were being zipped into a body bag and he couldn't be sure at this point. No doubt he'd know by this evening.

"I was beginning to think you'd got lost," Sherlock said, which was as close to a "thank you" as John was expecting.

"No, not lost. Just having a bit of a chat with Anderson," John said lightly.

Sherlock blinked, and finally turned pale, surprised eyes in John's direction. "About what?" he asked.

"Oh, clarifying some terminology," John said, flashing a pleasant smile.

Sherlock's brows drew together in a barely-there frown, which John had no trouble translating as, _What the hell are you going on about?_

John responded by keeping that same, inane smile plastered firmly on his face, which he knew Sherlock would read just as easily as, _None of your business._

Sherlock hesitated for a second, but decided to let it go, at least for the moment. Reaching into his coat's internal breast pocket, he pulled out his sunglasses (sleek, black, wraparound, and worth a month's rent), snapping them open one-handed and slipping them on in his traditional I'm-done-with-this-crime-scene gesture.

Lestrade, seeing that Sherlock was preparing to leave, approached. "Any ideas, then?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

After waiting a moment and getting nothing more, Lestrade prompted, "Any ideas you feel like _sharing_?" John bit his lip to hold in a chuckle.

"Not yet," Sherlock told him.

Lestrade sighed like a man who'd received exactly the reply he expected. "Well, text me when you've got something," he said, shooting a glance at John.

John gave a fractional nod, appeal received and noted.

"Now get off my crime scene," Lestrade said, waving one hand in a shooing gesture.

On their way out under the boundary tape, John happened to glance to the side and spot Anderson some distance away. Anderson had been watching John sidelong, but when he realized he'd been spotted he immediately looked away, hunching slightly. John couldn't help a lopsided smile, tight and fierce, feeling far happier than was probably decent.

"Terminology," Sherlock said, as they strode off together in search of a cab. Naturally he hadn't missed the exchange.

"Terminology," John replied firmly. "Where to, now?"

"Tesco's. There are a few things I need."

John managed not to groan. Sherlock and large retail establishments were a disastrous combination. "Yes, Master," he muttered under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing," John said, stepping to the edge of the pavement and waving to hail an approaching cab.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's endnotes: When cobbling together my fake dictionary entry at the beginning of the story, I made use of information from Google Web Definitions, the [relevant Wikipedia entry](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warg), and my own fevered imagination; I would have liked to include a pronunciation guide, but ended up being too lazy to figure out how (or if) I could get this site to display the appropriate characters. Still, I think it gets the idea across . . . and it lets me indulge my linguistic fetishes. ;)
> 
> Also, RE: the mention of police officers going armed, remember that this is an AU and a rather scarier place than our own Universe. The Met regularly issues pistols loaded with silver bullets here, and in the north shotguns loaded with a mix of iron pellets and salt are the rule for law enforcement officers, legacy of dealing with unruly Fae.
> 
> ETA: A Russian translation by krirk is available here: [Варг Шерлока](http://diary.ru/~sherlockbbc/p137212631.htm), and a podfic (by [themusecalliope](http://themusecalliope.livejournal.com/)) is [here](http://www.mediafire.com/file/6hek32wr6lzphn6/SherlocksWarg.zip).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Sherlock's Warg](https://archiveofourown.org/works/479870) by [themusecalliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themusecalliope/pseuds/themusecalliope)




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